


Blue Balled

by AdamantSteve



Category: Captain America (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, assassinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint meets a fellow assassin who becomes his some-time fuck-buddy.<br/>Betaed by <a href="http://dunicha.tumblr.com/">Dunicha</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Balled

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the following prompt, though it really only covers the first half:
> 
> Clint and Bucky occasionally run into each other on foreign missions, often on opposite sides. Still, when the op is over, they sometimes meet for hot, angry, largely anonymous sex (would love it if they don't know each other's names -- like Bucky thinks of him as 'the guy with the arrows' or something).
> 
> On an Avengers mission, Steve walks in on Clint's hookup and realizes it's Bucky. (Maybe Steve already knew Bucky was alive somewhere? Up to anon).
> 
> +1 Steve is jealous and angsty
> 
> +10 Bucky remembers Steve just fine and proposes a threesome.
> 
> +100 They take Bucky's suggestion.
> 
> \------
> 
> I may write a follow up but have no plans to for a while.

The concrete was rough beneath Clint, adding grazes to the cuts and bruises already peppered across his skin. The man pounded into him, one hand fisted in his hair and pressing his face to the ground, the other one cold on Clint's hip. It was as good as it always was, hard and frantic, and over fast. When he was done, the man reached down to pull Clint up before pressing him against the wall for a final hard kiss and then vanishing into the night.

 

-

 

Assassinations didn't have much of a social hierarchy. A guy told you who to shoot, you shot someone, you went home. But every now and again, someone else wanted your target dead and that's when it became tricky. Sometimes, your client didn't care so long as the guy - and it was nearly always a guy - was dead. Other times, like when you had a shady government organisation being incredibly anal about everything, it could become a problem. Either way, it turned something relatively simple into a _thing_. It made it messy.

 

The first time Clint had seen this guy was in Russia, and every time since then it had been either in a former USSR country or one of the Baltic states. Always somewhere cold. He'd been on the next rooftop over, aiming at Clint's target: some guy in a fur hat who's name was on Clint's list that day. The man looked at him, just a glance really, before settling back at his own gun. Clint wouldn't admit that he'd panicked, but he had, and in that panic had taken the shot early, before anything could get more fucked up. 

 

The man had looked back at him and swung his gun over his shoulder before standing up and disappearing off the roof. 

 

Clint packed his gun away and smoothed himself back into his Joe-Tourist guise before palming his knife and leaving the building. He didn't get beyond the roof stairwell before he had his knife out. The man was there, leaning against the wall in the dim light.

"That was my kill." The man said.

Clint shrugged. "I won't tell if you don't." 

 

"The way I see it is, you owe me." His accent was American but a slight Russian lilt curved his vowels.  The man crossed his arms.

"Yeah? How do you figure? A guy got shot, we both have happy bosses. We all go home." But Clint knew what he meant. When you geared yourself up to make a shot, to take a man out, and a voice in your ear told you to hold off, or worse, something else took out your target, it left you with an itch you couldn't scratch. Clint knew what this guy wanted. "You got blue balls?" 

 

"You could say that." The man raked his eyes over Clint and Clint did likewise. It had been a while, and if this guy was the man who'd taken out some of his previous jobs in the cold, he was good at hitting his targets. 

"So, what, I gotta take you to dinner?" Clint asked, putting his knife back in his pocket but keeping his hand around it all the same. 

"I'll do you one better." The man said, stepping forward as he pulled down his fly. 

 

Call it professional courtesy. The guy's cock felt good in his mouth, and Clint got to work, happy enough to give this guy the benefits of his second best skill. He pulled off when he'd finished and spat cum onto the concrete. "Nice doing business with you." 

 

Clint stood, leaning in close as he tucked the man's dick back in his pants and pulled his fly closed for him. He kissed him hard before turning away.

 

That was the first time.

 

-

 

The second time, the man got the shot before Clint because the target kept walking out of Clint's sights. The other man's vantage point was just better.

 

"Fuck." Clint said, gritting his teeth. 

"If you want." The man called from the next roof, eyebrow cocked as he unscrewed the sights from his gun. 

Clint looked back at him. "You _do_ owe me."

The man nodded. "I pay my debts." 

 

It was hard and rough and fast, Clint pounding into the man in another stairwell even as sirens filled the air outside. The man was burning heat in that cold air, hot and tight, grunting every time Clint thrust into him. Clint reached out to grab onto the man's hands, pull them behind him for something to hold on to. One arm was cold, he thought in the back of his mind as he finished, creased over the man. Clint slipped out and leant against the man's back, panting for a moment before pulling his jeans up.

 

Just like that it was over, debt paid. Until the next time.

 

From then on, every time they encountered one another on a job, one would take the shot and let the other fuck  him afterwards. They didn't ask each others' names, didn't really know anything about each other aside from vague sexual preferences and how the other felt under them or pushed up against a wall. They didn't need to. 

 

-

 

A few years later, once Clint had become an Agent of SHIELD and didn't shoot people for money so often anymore, there was a job in Alaska, and the man was there. Clint was surprised to see him so far from Mother Russia. 

 

The man fucked Clint in a van in a mall parking lot, and that arm of his was colder still, even covered by thick wool and gloves. Clint slipped a hand between the fabrics to feel there, gingerly because they were assassins after all, and he'd seen this guy in close combat a few times through his scope. But the man let him pull off his glove and see his metal hand, flexing it just like a real one. Clint didn't ask any questions. 

 

When he was getting dressed after taking a little longer than they normally might in the relative luxury of the van, Clint asked him, "You in America long term? As cosy as this is, I gotta say, I don't relish the competition." 

The man shrugged. "I go where they tell me." 

Clint understood that. "You ever on the East coast, I know a good borscht place." 

The man laughed mirthlessly. "I hate borscht."

Clint cocked an eyebrow - he understood that too - and left. 

 

-

 

He did see him on the East coast a few months later, in New York, after he'd become part of a do-gooder team of freaks and superheroes. The man levelled his gun at the Avengers' target, a man they were hoping to take into custody rather than kill, and Clint shook his head when the man looked over at him. Clint breathed a sigh of some kind of relief when he put his gun down.

 

"Bow and arrow, huh?" The man said from behind him shortly afterwards. Clint didn't take his eyes off of his quarry when he shrugged. "New management."

 

Steve's voice came over Clint's earpiece to tell him that it was over, the supervillain of the week was under arrest and he could stand down. He began to pack up his bow. 

"You got blue balled too, huh?" 

"It happens." 

"You miss it."

Clint shrugged a yes. "It's a job."

The man licked his lips, waiting.

"You wanna come back to my apartment?" Clint asked. It would be nice to fuck in an actual bed for once. The man nodded. 

 

They left the building and walked in silence to the tower, the edge of danger feeling all the more electric since it had been so long since he'd taken any real sort of risk. SHIELD was one thing, the Avengers was another. He'd have been a moron not to take up free rent in Manhattan, but the price was having America's Boyscout frowning at him whenever he brought someone home, like it was alright for Tony to fuck around but somehow Clint was held to different standards. 

 

"A real bed, huh? You really have gone up in the world." The man said as they watched the lights of the city through the glass side of the elevator. Clint just shrugged and tried not to stare at the metal hand. A flash lit up the elevator as Iron Man flew home to roost, but the man gave no sign of recognition or interest. He was inscrutable at the best of times, and Clint began to have second thoughts about bringing him here.

 

Once on the residential floor, Clint nodded towards his apartment and fetched two beers which were swiftly forgotten once he'd closed his door. They'd never _both_ been denied a kill before, and even if that was becoming par for the course for Clint, he still felt short changed. They fought, hands grabby and rough, that cold hand eventually pressing Clint down into the mattress, immovable. Clint slapped and grabbed even as he spread his legs, the man just holding him there, leaning over to bite Clint's jaw. 

 

The bed squeaked comically with the man's thrusts, til the entire frame of the bed began banging against the wall, but Clint didn't care. The man pushed his metal thumb into Clint's mouth, warmed from being pressed against his chest. Clint bit down to see if it would give, but it was solid and unyielding. Clint grunted around it, slapping again before the man grabbed both of Clint's hands and held them over his head. It had always been good before, but now that they had a bed and a locked door, the man took his time, not pistoning in and out of Clint with the same degree of abandon as he usually would. Clint yowled, swearing and fighting back with words even as he surrendered with his body.

 

He hadn’t really given thought to it before, but even with the metal arm - maybe even because of it - the man was quite beautiful in his own way. Clint hadn’t ever seen him completely naked before; the scars where the metal joined his skin and over the rest of his body spoke of a similar life to Clint’s, but made him no less good to look at. The top of his metal arm had a bright red star etched into it and Clint shook his hands free from the man’s grasp to touch the star with his finger and trail over the edge of the scar until the man batted his hand away. 

 

Clint curled his hands around the man’s neck instead, to pull him down to breathe in the man’s smell, familiar to him after all their coincidental missions. He smelled like winter air, cold and sharp. Clint kissed him, something they didn’t usually do: their kisses before were more like an ironic coda to their impersonal fucking. But now, even if it was still hard and rough and dirty, they _looked_ at each other, Clint finding himself searching the man’s dark eyes without knowing what he was looking for. 

 

The man wrapped that mechanical hand around Clint’s cock and began to jerk it with a too-tight grip. The sight of it, silver on Clint’s aching cock, and the dangerous thought that he didn’t know quite how strong that hand could be made Clint catch his breath and arch his back, thrusting up into the tight, unmoving circle of metal fingers. 

 

For all their times that had been over so quickly, Clint hoped this wouldn’t be over too soon. It suddenly seemed to fit. Even if it had been good before, that had just been scratching an itch. This was something else.

 

Clint suddenly realised that he wanted to _know_ things about this man, find out who he was. Why he sounded like he was from Brooklyn but swore in Russian. How the fuck he’d ended up with a metal arm. The man drove into him all the while, oblivious to Clint’s reverie. He squeezed Clint’s cock and Clint yelped, biting the man’s lips before he pulled away, grinning. Clint swore at him and pushed, slapping at the man before he gathered Clint’s arms above his head again, holding him down as he jerked Clint faster and faster.

 

The banging that Clint had assumed was the bed hitting the wall abruptly stopped, even though the man and the bed kept moving, and a sudden blast filled the room with dust. The man was already covering Clint but he dropped over him almost protectively. Clint pushed him off. 

 

They looked up and Tony was standing there, one gauntleted hand still raised after having blasted the door open, looking aggravated. Steve stood behind him and peered through the haze of dust in the air, eyes widening. 

 

Clint rolled his eyes. "Fucking Christ, Steve! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Steve didn't respond, he just kept staring at the man. Clint didn't know what the big deal was, Steve had seen him bring guys home before. Maybe he'd been making more noise than usual but that hardly seemed to justify blowing his door into smithereens.

 

"Sorry, Bart. Steve thought you were being raped." Tony said he pushed past Steve. Steve still didn't move.

" _What_ , Steve? It's called casual sex. Maybe you should try it sometime. If anyone needs to get laid, it's you."

But Steve wasn't hearing him. Eventually the man sat up and nodded in greeting. "Steve."

 

Steve swallowed. "Bucky."

 


End file.
